Dead Even - Mariah Stewart [30]
He whimpered aloud.
And then I get out, and all I want to do is just live my life. Get a job. Find a girl. Live my life. I had no intention of playing out the game.
And then this guy came along and said I had to. . . .
And what was he going to say when they asked him who the stranger was?
“I don’t know,” he said aloud. “I don’t know who he is. I never even seen his face. . . .”
Like anyone is going to believe that.
Archer hugged himself in the dark, and tried to think of a way out of the mess he’d gotten himself into, preferably one that would not require him to kill or, in the alternative, to be killed.
Right at that moment, he wasn’t sure which would be worse.
CHAPTER
SIX
Claire Channing was watching from the living room window of her well-kept white clapboard ranch house as the man and woman crossed her lawn, headed for her front door. Even if they hadn’t given her the courtesy of a phone call, she’d have known just by looking at them that they were law. She’d seen more than enough law enforcement types over the past six months. After the investigation into the circumstances surrounding the death of her foster son, Curtis, had concluded, she’d thought she’d seen the last of them.
Apparently not. Her face was etched with sadness as the doorbell rang. Would there never be an end to the questions?
“I appreciate you being on time,” she said wearily as she opened the door.
“Mrs. Channing, I’m Special Agent Miranda Cahill. We spoke earlier on the phone.” In the agent’s left hand were her credentials.
Claire Channing had seen her share of those over the past months, as well.
“I’m Agent Fletcher, ma’am.” The second agent introduced himself.
“Do come in, Agent Cahill, Agent Fletcher.” Mrs. Channing stepped back, offering a weak smile as the two agents eased past her. “I’m afraid things are a bit disheveled right now. . . .”
“You’re moving?” Agent Cahill asked.
“Yes. With everything that’s happened over the past several months, I just need . . .” Mrs. Channing shook her head.
“A change of scenery.” Agent Cahill completed the sentence for her. “Of course you do. I’m sure this whole matter has been terribly stressful for you, Mrs. Channing. It’s very nice of you to give Agent Fletcher and me a few minutes of your time. We won’t keep you any longer than necessary, I promise.”
“Thank you. It has been an ordeal.” Mrs. Channing sat on the arm of a club chair; several boxes had been stacked on its seat. “After Curtis . . . well, there was so much . . . commotion. Reporters and police, it just got to be too much. I spent some time in Florida with my sister, and that time away made me realize that there really wasn’t anything to hold me here anymore. My husband has been gone these years, and Curtis . . . Curtis won’t be coming back. So I listed the house for sale, and the agent found a buyer. We settle in two weeks. It’s taking me longer than I expected to pack, though. It’s not easy to pack up fifty-two years of your life in a month’s time, you know.”
“I’m sure it’s very difficult for you, Mrs. Channing. We’ll make this as easy for you as we can,” Will assured her.
“Well, then. What exactly do you need to know that no one else has asked me over the past six months?”
“Can you think of anyone Curtis might have had a grievance against? Someone he might have wanted to take revenge on?” Agent Cahill appeared to choose her words carefully.
“What kind of a question is that?” Claire Channing was taken aback. “Curtis is dead. What is this talk of revenge?”
“Mrs. Channing, we have reason to believe that before Curtis died, he and two other men made a pact . . . an agreement.” More carefully chosen words from Miranda Cahill.
“A pact?” Mrs. Channing frowned. “What kind of a pact? What are you talking about?”
“They made an agreement to kill for one another, Mrs. Channing,” Will Fletcher said. “The women whom Curtis killed earlier this year—all have ties to one of the other two men. Then, two months ago, two people having ties to another of